


Foam Flower

by WonderWafles



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Tolkien Secret Santa 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 19:43:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17127560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderWafles/pseuds/WonderWafles
Summary: Eärendil takes Elrond to see the beginnings of the ship that would become Vingilótë.





	Foam Flower

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Official Tolkien Secret Santa 2018, for factorialrabbits on Tumblr.

Vingilótë was its name, and Elrond was among the first to see it.

Eärendil was quick and sure-footed across the beaches of the Havens, and though Elrond was not nearly so, he followed. Eärendil turned and grinned at him when he fell behind, though it was not of derision, and he would slow to let his son catch up with him.

Elrond remembered also the boat they found moored at the mouths of the Sirion because he had seen his father leave on it many times, Elwing his mother joining him occasionally but never he nor Elros.

“When you’re older,” Eärendil said when Elrond asked him, and smiled and kissed him on the forehead. “But soon. I promise.” And Elrond did not pretend to understand the sadness in his voice.

Today Elrond wanted to ask his father a thousand times what it was he was showing him, but Eärendil’s eyes were fixed on the horizon, drifting ever westward, and Elrond stayed silent, only held his father’s hand and grinned when he looked at him.

Círdan met them at the shores of the island. “Who is this?” he asked Eärendil, the hint of a sparkle in his eyes, the faint lilt of a smile on his face. Even then Elrond could tell he had seen much he should never have had to see. 

“One of the two greatest things I have ever had a part in making,” Eärendil, who understood the propensity of children to be embarrassed by their parents and used it to nefarious purpose, said. Elrond blushed but held his hand up to the Elf.

“Círdan, sometimes called the Shipwright,” the Elf said, taking the boy’s hand. “I have to tell you that there have been many since myself, but I’m afraid I’d already taken the name.”

“Elrond,” Elrond said, feeling his lack of title. “It’s an honor.”

“The honor is mine,” Círdan replied, and Elrond felt as though he meant it. “Now then. Your father tells me you are to see what we are working on.”

Elrond nodded vigorously, such that Eärendil laughed and Círdan smiled. “Then follow me,” he said.

Círdan brought the two of them around the coast. From a distance, Elrond could see the havens of the Falathrim where Círdan was lord.

“The Falas were our home,” Círdan said, catching Elrond’s eye. He followed it to the last holdings of the Falathrim. “Ever westward did we look. We still do now.”

Elrond nodded again. “Have you ever been West?” he asked Círdan. He had met a few Elves who had lived in the West, but they always spoke of it with sorrow, so he didn’t press.

“Ha! No. I never went,” Círdan replied. “My place was here.”

There was a gravitas in Círdan’s voice. Elrond wondered how old he was. Elves didn’t age, not like his grandfather had. He didn’t remember much about Tuor, only his smile, creased with the beginnings of age. But there was much about Círdan that reminded Elrond of his grandfather.

From behind him he felt Eärendil reach around his waist and lift him into the air. Elrond laughed aloud as he was set down on Eärendil’s shoulders.

“I am your ship, my lord,” Eärendil intoned, which made Elrond shriek with laughter. He couldn’t remember ever laughing as hard as he did then.

In time, they came upon the cove where Eärendil and Círdan worked. Eärendil set Elrond down, and the young boy ran up to the entrance to the cove.

“Is it in here?” he asked, his voice hushed. Eärendil rested his hand on Elrond’s shoulder.

“It is,” Círdan replied. “Shall we?”

Eärendil led Elrond along the beach, Círdan walking ahead of him. Elrond watched his gait and tried, for no particular reason, to step only in his footprints in the sand.

When they reached the ship, Elrond was almost disappointed. The ship’s white skeleton was the only thing standing, and strewn about it was the evidence of his father’s labor, pieces of wood resting in the sand, with other materials tucked further away from the lapping of the sea.

“The prow fell off,” Círdan said, stooping to pick up the piece.

“We’ll fix it,” Eärendil said, smiling, and that was another thing Elrond remembered about his father – the way he could convince anyone that any problem was temporary.

It didn’t seem to work on Círdan, who held the piece in his hands and frowned at it. Elrond looked up at his father.

“Is this it?” he asked, hushed. “This is the ship you’ll sail West with.”

Eärendil did not often speak of his voyage, but Elrond and his brother both knew well enough what he was planning. Eärendil nodded slowly. “This is it,” he replied, keeping his hand resting on Elrond’s shoulder. “She is fair, is she not?”

Elrond looked at the skeleton on the beach. “Well,” he began. He didn’t want to hurt his father’s feelings.

Círdan laughed, the first time Elrond had heard the old Elf laugh, and one of a rare few that he ever would. “It’s hard to see as yet,” Círdan said, and ran a hand along the unfinished flank. “But she is fair to my eyes.”

Eärendil did not speak, merely watched. Elrond wondered what he was thinking.

“She must have a name,” Eärendil said eventually. He looked down at Elrond and let go of his shoulder. “What do you say, my captain? Will you help us?”

Elrond grinned. “She will be the fastest ship ever built!” he said. “So that she will bring you back to Emig and us quickly. So, um… wave-cutter!”

Círdan was amused by this name. Eärendil looked caught off-guard by this, but recovered to smile again. “Wave-cutter is a fine name.”

“I’m not done!” Elrond said, his mind pivoting with un-Elven swiftness to a new topic in the same way that Eärendil had always exhausted Idril with. “It’s a beautiful ship, too. Like a flower.”

Eärendil knew better than to presume Elrond was done this time, and waited for him. 

“Flower of the sea,” Elrond said. “Vingilótë. You should call her Vingilótë.”

Elrond had three more ideas after that, but he kept going back to Vingilótë, and Eärendil agreed that this too was a fine name.

Círdan looked up at the ship. “Vingilótë,” he said. “Now there is a name that carries fate with it.”

Elrond giggled.

Eärendil knelt down to kiss his head. “We should be getting you back,” he said. “Your mother will miss you.”

“Will you take Elros to see Vingilótë, too?” Elrond demanded.

“Of course,” Eärendil said, laughing.

Elrond was satisfied with that. Círdan walked them back, past the havens of the Falathrim and to the little boat, and bid them farewell as Eärendil took them back.

“Atto,” Elrond said, “do you think Vingilótë will be strong enough to take you West?”

He didn’t know much about his father’s errand, only that it was necessary, and that when Eärendil returned (for he surely would) it would be to a world without the darkness that cast its shadow on his parents’ faces. He knew his father’s ship must be the best it could be.

Eärendil considered the question. “I think so,” he said. “Círdan is the greatest Shipwright in the whole world, and he knows what he’s doing.” He ruffled Elrond’s hair.

When they got home, Elros nearly tackled his brother with questions.

“It’s secret,” Elrond said to tease him.

“Is not!” Elros insisted. “Atto, was it secret?”

Eärendil leaned into the embrace of his wife. “I’m glad I showed him,” he murmured to her, out of earshot of the two boys.

Elwing looked down at the Nauglamír, worn around her neck as she had seen her father wear it, and smiled. “Me too.”

…

Word had come down – a special dispensation was granted by Manwë himself. Elrond was to sail from Eressëa to the bays of Eldamar.

He had gone before, but never like this.

“I wish I could meet him,” Bilbo grumbled. “Mayhaps I could show him my poem. Do you think he would like it?”

“I think he would love it,” Elrond assured.

“Hmmph. Will you take him a copy? Let me know what he says.”

“Master Baggins,” Elrond intoned. “If I didn’t know you any better, I would say you were nervous.”

Bilbo scoffed at that, but pressed the scroll into Elrond’s hand anyway, and Elrond solemnly promised to fulfill the errand.

The Teleri raised their hands in greeting to him. “Son of Elwing!” they cried, and wished him well. He greeted them in turn, and they pointed him in the direction of his mother’s tower, but he told them that he was not going there today.

The ship was waiting for him, docked as though it were like any other vessel. His mother waved at him from the docks, a gentle joy in her face. 

Vingilótë was different now, built with Elven-glass and shining with a light that never could have graced it in the little cove where Eärendil and Círdan had kept her. But he recognized her, saw in her hallowed frame the same skeleton that had been waiting for him on the beach.

He hugged Elwing, and then looked at the ship. “Is he-?” Elrond asked. Despite his better judgment, he felt nerves alight in his stomach.

Elwing laughed. “He’s waiting for you,” she said.

On the deck of Vingilótë, Eärendil was sitting. When he saw Elrond, he rose, and on his face was a poorly disguised mirror of Elrond’s own nerves. The Silmaril was not on his face, and the wholeness of his features could be seen. Elrond was glad.

They stared at each other.

“It’s been a long time, my son-” Eärendil began, but Elrond was already embracing him. Taken aback, Eärendil wrapped his arms around his son.

“I have missed you,” Elrond said, simply, thousands of years within his voice. 

“And I,” Eärendil said, which was all that needed to be said.

Elwing embraced them both, and to Elrond it seemed that everything was perfect for the first time in a very long time.

Almost perfect.

“The Valar liked your name,” Eärendil added, beginning to grin.

“Huh?” Elrond said, not understanding.

“Vingilótë. They thought her well named. I made sure to tell them who came up with it.”

Elrond laughed. “That’s good,” was all he could say.

Before Eärendil left again to resume his journey, they talked of many things. Elrond spoke of Lindon, of Gil-Galad and of Círdan, who had remained to faithfully guide all who would leave. (“He’s grown a beard?” Eärendil asked, the shock evident in his voice, while Elwing laughed. “That old man. I can’t wait to see it.”) He spoke of Bilbo and Frodo Baggins, of Samwise the Brave and Elessar.

At last, as night was in its final hours, Elrond pressed the scroll into his father’s hands. “From an old friend of mine,” he said. “You must tell him what you think, he’s anxious to know.”

“I will,” Eärendil promised. He embraced Elrond and Elwing again, and watched as they stepped off of Vingilótë and onto the docks of Alqualondë.

“Until next time,” Eärendil said, smiling gently. Vingilótë set out, ready to lift into the sky and rise again as the morning star.

He walked with Elwing back to her tower, and they embraced again before she began to climb, ready to meet her husband once again.

On the boat back to Tol Eressëa, as Arien's light spilled in from the east of the world, Elrond watched Gil-Estel, and found a peace in his heart that had not been there when he’d looked on that star during his long years in Middle Earth.

**Author's Note:**

> Some of you may notice I've mixed up Quenya and Sindarin a couple of times here (mostly that Vingilot is referred to with its Quenya name, while Elrond uses Sindarin words a couple of times). This is mostly because I always presumed Vingilótë was originally named in Quenya, given its etymology, and that Eärendil would have grown up knowing both languages, from Tuor who speaks Sindarin and Idril who would likely speak both, and taught them both to his sons. (And who's going to enforce the no-Quenya rule at this point, anyway?) That being said, I freely admit there may be a mistake in my knowledge of Sindarin somewhere in here.
> 
> As for the timeline, I envision this taking place when Elrond and Elros are five. Eärendil and Círdan will finish Vingilótë later that year, and the Third Kinslaying will come the next year.


End file.
